Fox River (44 page)

The chase, a spectacular picture-perfect run, continued for more than thirty minutes, over grassland and dry creek beds, through thickets and a patch of sparse forest. Like most foxes, this one doubled back and looped in wily figure eights, confusing the pack, but only momentarily. Christian was so absorbed in keeping track of the hounds that it took him precious seconds to realize they had slowed at last. He pulled up just in time as the dawdlers stopped altogether, and he held up his hand so Peter would hold back the field.

The check gave everyone, horses, hounds and riders, a chance to catch their breath. The quick burst of scent followed by the fox sighting had been the ideal beginning to an opening meet.

Christian let the hounds range farther without accompanying them. He didn’t want to chance crossing the line of scent, which would make it harder for the hounds to find it again. He would cast them again, if need be, but for now, he let them work.

He glanced behind him when he heard hoofs approaching and saw Peter closing in. Peter spoke in low tones, so as not to disturb the working hounds. “I’ve seen this happen in this place before. What do you think’s going on?”

“I think our fox took a detour through that fallen log over there.” Christian pointed with his whip. “Climbed up along what’s left of that old stone fence and took a leap into the creek. What’s your take on it?”

“Just about the same. He’s a gray, so he climbs. Might even have walked along that low limb over there and not scampered over the wall at all.”

“I doubt he’s gone to ground.” Christian, like a lot of foxhunters, was convinced that foxes—American foxes, anyway—relished the chase and only went into a hole or den when they grew too bored or tired to continue. There were hundreds of such escapes in any territory, and the mere fact that there were chases at all seemed proof the fox enjoyed himself.

“You’re doing a superb job, son.”

Christian met Peter’s gaze for a long moment. “Your son is dead, sir.”

Peter looked surprised. “I’m sorry, Christian. I didn’t realize calling you that disturbed you.”

“There was a time when it felt like the greatest of honors. But this morning I realized that, with your help, your real son stole nearly nine years of my life.”

Peter was silent. The two men sat, gazes locked, until a hound, Chipper this time, began to speak.

“He’s found something,” Peter said, turning his horse toward the field.

“I know how he feels.”

“We’ll talk later.” Peter kicked Jack’s Knife into a canter.

His mind straying in a million different directions, Christian moved in on the hounds, but not too close. Chipper, nose buried in fallen leaves, was dashing toward the creek. In a moment Lizzie joined him, aiming her musical support toward the sky, which was growing lighter as clouds dispersed. The conditions that had kept the fox’s scent strong were changing, and the scent would rise and dissipate as the ground warmed.

The rest of the pack moved in to see if their pals knew what they were talking about. In moments they were in pursuit, splashing across this new and wider part of the creek bed with Christian and the whippers-in following.

Christian heard the pursuit behind him as he and Night Ranger took the creek in an extended jump. As he skirted the pack, he could see the first flight, Peter in the lead, crossing after him. Peter cleared easily, but one of the ladies didn’t and lost her seat as her horse scrambled up the opposite bank. Unhurt, she picked herself up and darted quickly out of the way. Peter, who was closest, went after her horse, and Christian lost sight of them both as he stayed with the hounds, who were making their way over another stone wall into a pasture of black Angus cattle.

The cows fouled the scent, and the confused hounds grouped at the other side of the wall as if to say “What next, boss?”

Christian stayed behind the wall and remained quiet, circling Night Ranger so they would have an easy approach when they needed it. The pack split but stayed well away from the cattle. Some went east and some west, noses working as they tried to discover the familiar skunklike odor of fox. One graceful willow adorned the pasture, and the pack met again just beyond it, noses still to the ground.

Christian cleared the wall, and from the corner of his eye he saw the whippers-in taking it, to flank the pack from a distance. Cows lowed in protest but the bulls were in a separate pasture close to the house today, courtesy of the considerate farmer.

Even though they were gathered in a loose knot, the hounds were clearly still confused, casting here and there and coming up with nothing.

“Cheers to you, Charley,” Christian muttered. Charley, the foxhunter’s name for his quarry, hadn’t grown large and sleek on good fortune. He was crafty and confident enough to fool one of the best foxhound packs in Virginia.

Christian rode closer, calling out to the hounds to reassure them. He could sense their frustration. He knew it well, the premonition that there was something more to be discovered, a trail to follow, a conclusion to be won. Like them, he resented anything that interfered.

Beyond the pasture was a deep stretch of forest, rising slowly up craggy Little Sergeant Hill. An old logging road gave laborious access, but few tried the road except on horseback. Christian had hoped to avoid this eventuality—the one negative about this particular fixture—but he’d prepared himself. Even the best riders could lose their way or their seat on Little Sergeant, and the best pack could split. The forest had never been clear-cut. Some trees were as old as Virginia, huge canopies still clinging to remnant leaves. Scrub had grown up around them, as well as sapling locusts and dogwoods. But Christian knew the fox was in there somewhere, laughing at his hounds.

One of the hounds knew it, too. Darth, who had already acquitted himself well that morning, opened his throat and sang like an angel. More noses to the ground, a crowd gathered, and the line was rediscovered. Off toward the forest they ran in full chorus. Christian blew the horn, then followed after them.

He and Night Ranger sailed over a coop placed along the pasture’s edge for such a moment. He could hear hoofs thundering behind him, but he was too intent on not losing the hounds to spare a glance.

He started the climb. The hounds took the fastest path directly into the woods. He jumped a ditch and guided Ranger around a downed tree. The hounds were ahead of him, some straying to the right, as if they had lost the line, some moving with purpose through the undergrowth. Behind him, he heard the voices of riders making a steady climb. He imagined that by now they had lost the least valiant hilltoppers, who had gone back to enjoy the hunt breakfast. Some would wait at the pasture’s edge in case the climb proved futile and the hounds were cast again on flatter land.

He sounded the horn and called to the pack, encouraging them. From the corner of one eye he saw Lizzie and her littermate, Lego, cut off from the others, bouncing along at a fair clip. He debated whether to bring them back or let them investigate. The decision was moot when Lizzie gave tongue, joined immediately by Lego. They were on a fox, but which fox? The other hounds were preoccupied, even annoyed by Lizzie’s racket. They were pursuing their own course, and before Christian could decide which group held the most promise, Lizzie and Lego streaked through the brush and headed up the hillside.

Only one of the whippers-in had joined him. The other was preoccupied with dawdlers. Christian saw the hounds fanning out and knew that if he didn’t bring Lizzie and Lego back, hours might pass before he found them again. Their collars would be little help, since Fish was far away on the paved road well below them.

His decision was made when three more couple joined the littermates. He signaled to the whip, and took off after the errant hounds, calling them by name and cracking his whip in warning, but the hounds were on a line they refused to abandon. They were well-trained not to “riot,” or track other game, but the littermates, at least, were young enough that their training might have been eclipsed by the excitement of the moment. They could be after deer, bobcat or, worst of all, bear. Coyote, invading this region like others throughout the country, was also a possibility.

The hounds, lower to the ground, could find their way through brush, over boulders and around fallen trees. Christian and Night Ranger were at a disadvantage. The big horse, at his best out in the open, had to pick his way slowly through the unkind terrain, and before long the hounds were out of sight.

Christian cursed softly and followed their voices. He called to them again and again, cracking the whip when he had the room, but they were in full-scale rebellion. Had he carried a gun, he would have fired it over his head, a signal hounds rarely disregarded. But he couldn’t ride armed, as yet. Until he was out from under all suspicion and a permanent release from prison was official, he knew better than to be caught with a gun in his possession, not even a .22 filled with bird shot for emergencies.

Minutes passed, and he began to regret chasing the rebels. He should have waited for the other whipper-in and sent him. Once upon a time he had roamed every hill and hollow of this countryside, but he was at a disadvantage now. On his rides with Peter they had not come up this hill, hoping the hunt would proceed in a different direction. The territory was unfamiliar, the forest dense. He knew he wouldn’t lose his way; he simply had to head down in order to find his way back to the logging road. But he wondered if he would find the hounds before whatever they were after did.

He reached a clearing, and just over the next ridge the hound symphony crescendoed. He spurred Night Ranger on, calling and cracking his whip as they charged through the open space, down into another hollow and up the side. At the top he peered down.

Peter, on Jack’s Knife, waved him forward. Peter, who was holding a .38 pointed directly at Christian’s chest.

C
hristian stood next to Night Ranger, loosely holding the horse’s reins. On the ground at his feet the rebel hounds, exhausted from their long run and climb, lethargically sniffed for a new line.

“Bobcat,” Peter explained. “Disappeared into that cave over there, just as I rode up. They’re pretending they put him to ground, but none of them are stupid enough to go in after him. Still, I’m surprised at their lack of discipline.” He sounded like the Peter Christian had always known. Nothing was different except for the gun that was still pointed at his chest.

Christian remained silent.

Peter studied him, then grimaced. “I told you to leave it alone, Christian. I told you not to stick your nose any deeper into this business than it was already. I got you off. That’s all you needed to know.”

“I needed to know the truth.”

“What made you figure it out?”

“A lapse in loyalty.”

Peter didn’t seemed surprised. “All the pieces were there, weren’t they? You just never let yourself put them together. You loved him too much.”

“Not quite all the pieces. I didn’t know Fidelity had been leading Robby on, not until Julia mentioned how close they were that summer. It never occurred to me that he’d have any reason to kill her.”

“Not leading him on. If only it had been that. She was fucking him, pure and simple.”

The word sounded incongruous on the tongue of a man dressed in formal hunting attire. It was a measure of Peter’s complete disgust.

Christian theorized out loud. “I’m guessing she called it quits that last morning, when she and Robby went out riding together. Julia told her to stop flirting with him, and she must have taken it to heart. Telling him goodbye must not have gone well. Afterward she went to Bard Warwick for advice.”

“He was a passionate man, my son. He loved deeply and forever. Robby thought she felt the same way about him. Foolish, foolish.”

“So he killed her in a fit of rage.”

“He didn’t plan it. He went to plead with her, and she was getting ready for a date with somebody else, selecting jewelry from that collection of hers. He just…snapped. Afterward he grabbed the jewelry, to make it look like a robbery. He buried it on the way home.”

“He used his own knife, didn’t he? You gave him one that Christmas, too. I’m guessing he couldn’t make himself pick it up again after he killed her. When he got back to Claymore Park, he found mine on a window ledge in the barn or in a stall.”

“No, I found your knife and told him to say it was his. And that meant all the knives and the people who owned them were accounted for, except for the one you had your hands all over when they found you. They found prints other than yours on the blades, but Robby’s prints weren’t on file anywhere and he wasn’t a suspect. Besides, that was easily explained by the prosecutor. You passed your knife around to anyone who wanted to use it. You always shared.”

“Robby and I didn’t share my time in prison.”

“No. But Robby got the death sentence, didn’t he? He drove his car into that tree on purpose. He left me a note before he took off that night. He couldn’t stand what he’d done and the way you’d had to pay for it. He still loved you, you know. Right up until that last breath.”

Anger burned in Christian’s chest. “Why didn’t he just come forward and have me freed? Why not admit what he’d done if he felt guilty enough to kill himself?”

“I wouldn’t let him. It’s that simple. He was torn between his love for the two of us.”

“You couldn’t stand the dishonor.”

“You know me well.”

“So you dishonored yourself.”

“It seemed a small enough lapse. I truly believed we would get you off and nobody would ever have to know what Robby had done. I hired the best attorney. There was so little evidence, not even a good motive, but in the end the fact that you were standing there with the murder weapon was damning.”

“You could have spoken up then.”

“I was sure we’d get you off on appeal.”

“How did Zandoff fit in?”

“How do you think?”

Christian remembered his conversation with Bard. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“When years passed, and it looked like you were going to serve your whole sentence, I knew I needed nothing less than a confession. So I worked through Zandoff’s attorney. Who better to confess than a man about to die anyway? I told Zandoff what to say. In return, I promised to take care of his family after he was executed. He’s an oddly sentimental man when it comes to his family. I knew no one would ever find a record of his having been in Virginia, but the chances they’d find records of him living anywhere for those months was almost nil. He was a drifter. I was certain I’d be safe.”

“It all fit so neatly together. I called my friend in the sheriff’s department this morning. He told me you and Robby had airtight alibis. Each other.”

“Robby came to me right afterward. He was distraught. I told him to be a man, that we would fix this, too.”

Christian felt the hair on his arms prickle. “Too?”

Peter was silent.

Christian was feeling his way now. “The last time Julia spoke to Robby, he said that he had done
two
things in his life that would keep you busy for the rest of yours.”

“He resented me. I tried to make him strong. I wanted him to carry on our family’s traditions.”

“From my vantage point, I’d say you failed miserably.”

“Pretty courageous for a man with a gun pointed at his chest.”

“You’ve already done your worst. You took away everything I ever loved. You and Robby.”

“I’m afraid he took more than you know.”

Christian suddenly realized what else his boyhood friend had done. “My father?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Robby loved you. Gabe beat you, don’t you remember? You told Robby and made him promise not to tell anyone else. You claimed Gabe was drunk and didn’t know who he’d hit. But Robby couldn’t stand the fact you’d been hurt. He hated Gabe for what he’d done.”

“So he set a fire in the tack room after my father passed out the next night.”

“I did everything I could to make it up to you. I treated you like a second son.”

“God…”

“Robby was both passionate and impulsive. A cursed combination.”

“He was sick. He was a time bomb. And you could have done something about it then. You could have gotten treatment for him. Instead, by not reporting him, you let him go on to murder again!”

Peter didn’t defend himself. “We’re Claymores. We’ve been here for centuries. In the end, after all the tragedy, defending our name was the only thing I had left.”

“So what now? You’ve got a gun pointed at me. Are you going to finish what the exalted Claymore family started when Robby murdered my father? You’d better do it quickly, before somebody else finds this place and catches you in the act. Would you like me to kneel so you can say you shot me when you were trying to ward off the bobcat? You’re good at covering tracks. What’ll it be?”

“You’ve never had the pleasure of foxhunting in England, have you? It’s different there. They kill their foxes. They have too many. If they didn’t hunt them, the farmers would trap or poison them, a worse death by far.”

Christian realized he didn’t have much of a chance, but he was gambling that Peter wouldn’t shoot him right there, not with Night Ranger behind him and the hounds at his feet. Peter loved his animals almost as much as he loved the Claymore name. And if Christian was forced to move, he had a fighting chance to lunge for the gun.

“Would you say so?” Peter prompted him. “People believe what they’re told?”

“I certainly believed what you told me all these years.”

“In England they don’t let the hounds tear a fox to bits,” Peter continued. “When a fox goes to ground, the staff digs him out and shoots him. One clean shot. Good sportsmen, the Brits. Then they give him to the hounds.”

“You’re planning to dispense of me with one clean shot? Like a cornered fox?”

“Christian, you’re a bright young man, but you’ve missed the point. This time you are the hunter and I am the prey.” Peter stepped back, away from Jack’s Knife and the hounds.

Christian realized what he was going to do. “It doesn’t have to be this way, Peter. Don’t do this.”

Peter smiled sadly. “Son, don’t pick up the weapon this time. Show some sense.”